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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26083816">His constant attitude</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castalie/pseuds/Castalie'>Castalie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Backstory, Character Study, Discussion about Forgiveness and Redemption, F/F, M/M, Mention Of Homophobia, Mention of Andromache/Quynh, Slow Burn, Team as Family, mention of violence, slightly canon divergent</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 03:22:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,817</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26083816</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castalie/pseuds/Castalie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Kindness is always a work in progress. Nicky works very hard at it (or five times Nicky’s heart overflowed with a kindness of which this world is not worthy)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>343</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>His constant attitude</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>1. I am not a medievalist. I’ve never really thought I’d say this one day but I do wish I were. I’m not a Historian, either. Again with the regrets. I do make an effort to research online and offline and try to do my best with the information I find, though.<br/>2. Heartfelt thanks to Linda and GD for their precious help, as always. What would I do without them &lt;3 Added thanks to brucewaynery for her TOG master doc which I used here and there</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“<i>Forgiveness is not an occasional act; it is a constant attitude.</i>” Martin Luther King</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <hr/>
</div><i>The most recent time (until the next one) -  21st century, France</i><p>Six months after the London debacle, Booker found Joe waiting for him in his flat in Paris. He was leaning back against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest, head bent, expression tight. </p><p>Joe was deep in thought. Coming here hadn’t been easy. He knew Nicky was right about him needing to do this, but it didn’t make reaching out less complicated. He looked up when Booker closed the door softly behind him.</p><p>Neither of them spoke for a minute, each assessing the other. Booker didn’t even know what to say. He waited, just a few steps into the room, heart racing in his chest. He was eager to know why Joe was here, but almost afraid to break the spell. He had missed them all so much; just being in the same room as Joe made him feel calmer than he had felt for the past six months.</p><p>Joe finally took pity on him. Without preamble, he said, “You can thank Nicky for my presence here.”</p><p>Booker remained silent. He wasn’t sure whether Joe needed him to answer - or even wanted him to. </p><p>“Apparently,” Joe motioned with his hand between the two of them, “I needed to come and see you. The stubborn little shit wouldn’t leave me alone until I paid you a visit and we had a heart-to-heart.” Despite the words, Joe’s eyes were soft, as they always were when he talked - or thought - about Nicky. </p><p>Joe straightened up and took a step towards Booker. “He hates the idea of you being alone.” At this point, it was easier for Joe to talk about Nicky’s feelings - safer. “He hates the idea of us - me - being angry at you.” Joe’s smile was a mixture of affection and admiration. “He’s still deep in his ‘we need to let go of our anger and forgive’ stage.”</p><p>Booker couldn’t help but smile in return. He remembered some impressive arguments between the two, based on that very same topic. Nicky often extended a hand to those who Joe - or Booker, for that matter - considered a lost cause, even if it meant putting himself at risk. It never failed to drive Joe crazy.  “You wouldn’t want him any different.”   </p><p>Joe shrugged. “You know Nicky. That’s who he is, and who he will always be.”</p><p>“And we’re lucky for it.” </p><p>Joe nodded; he approved of any recognition of Nicky’s essential compassion. “If it was only up to him, he would be pushing for you to be allowed to come back. But he knows I’m not there yet. He won't ask.”</p><p>It was Booker’s turn to nod. He was grateful to Nicky for the sentiment, but he didn’t blame Joe in the slightest.  </p><p>“If it had just been me in that lab, I could have forgiven you.” Joe tilted his head to the side, contemplative. “Well. Eventually.” Then his eyes lost all warmth. “But what you did to Nicky... I can’t forget the memory of him under that butcher's knife because of you. The image of him being used as a lab rat for however long they would have kept us. Or maybe until, finally, he stopped healing and -” Joe didn't finish his sentence. His eyes grew even colder. “This I can't forgive. Not right now, anyway.”</p><p>Booker had no defense to offer; he could only agree. “I understand. I would never ask you to.” He didn’t know how to express the regrets he felt. He had no fucking idea how to ask for forgiveness for such a monumental failure - or if he deserved even a crumb of absolution. “I can't forgive myself, anyway, so why should you?”</p><p>Joe’s body went rigid with tension. “Why couldn't you talk to us, Booker? Why couldn't you just <i>talk</i> to us?” Sometimes, Joe resented Booker’s silence more than his betrayal. They were a family; it hurt - deeply - that Booker had been too blinded by his own pain to remember that. He rubbed his eyes. When he turned his attention back on Booker, he looked tired. “You almost ruined us.”</p><p>“I'm sorry.” Booker winced; the words sounded so meaningless. </p><p>“I know.” Joe’s expression turned resolute. “But it is what it is, I guess. We all have to live with the consequences, now.” He sighed. “Ok. I said what I came here to say. I’ll be going now.”</p><p>On his way to the door, Joe stopped in front of Booker. He reached out to touch Booker's shoulder. The gesture was as familiar and comforting as ever. “Nicky misses you,” Joe said, which was true, but also easier to admit; he was fighting against so many conflicted emotions. Then, because  Nicky would expect him to offer more - and because Joe tried to be honest with himself and his friends - he added, “We all do. Just because we’re angry doesn't mean we stopped loving you, ok? We just need to grieve a little, I think. It won't last - not a hundred years, anyway. Just bear with us.”</p><p>Booker had to look away. “I don't deserve your compassion.”</p><p>“What you don't deserve is to be alone.” Joe’s voice was tinged with sadness. “I just don't know how to be around you right now, that’s all. I'm sorry, too.” He squeezed Booker’s shoulder. “We need to move on. We'll learn. All of us.”</p><p>“Let's hope.”</p><p>Joe hesitated for a second before he took Booker in his arms, hugging him tight. Then he patted him on the cheek; the touch was as affectionate as before, but there was some sadness to it.</p><p>"Come on, Booker; you're supposed to be the clever one.  You know we'll get there eventually." </p><p>A small grin twitched at the corner of Booker’s mouth. “Say ‘hi’ to Nicky, alright? Tell him… tell him ‘thank you’.”</p><p>“I will.” Then Joe left, leaving Booker alone once more - but not as lonely as he had been.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <hr/>
</div><i>Some time before - 20th century, United States of America</i><p>The familiar smells of blood and gunpowder surrounded them. Joe knew it wasn’t real, but it felt almost as if the deafening sound of the gunfire still resonated in the warehouse where the assault had taken place. He had discovered through the years that the echo of violence and pain - received or inflicted - never dissipated as quickly as the savagery did. </p><p>Andy and Booker were making a last round to check the perimeter and make sure that everything was in order. Andy was no doubt making mental notes for the debriefing that would come later.  </p><p>As usual, they had been swift. Efficient. Deadly. Those poor bastards hadn’t stood a chance against them.  </p><p>There had been casualties, of course, but most members of the so-called White American Revolution army were still alive, to be handled by the authorities. Joe could hear their moans and groans, mixed with some uninspired cursing, as he checked one last time that the door of their makeshift cell was secure. </p><p>Andy jerked her head in his direction, confirming that the area was cleared; they had the floor, so to speak. Everything was under control, everyone accounted for. She always needed to be sure of that before she could begin to come down from the adrenaline high.</p><p>Joe’s heart was slowly settling down to a more normal rhythm as well, his body no longer in hyper-vigilant mode, his senses no longer on alert. But his blood remained almost at the boiling point, although it had nothing to do with the trigger-happy members of the white nationalist militia they’d been hired to neutralise, miserable excuses of humanity that they were. </p><p>Andy had made a call to the big brass who had sought out their services. The local police had been warned as well; soon the place would be swamped, and the gang would be taken care of. They were no longer Joe’s concern; he couldn’t care less what happened to them. His concern stood not far from him, looking guarded, but resolute. </p><p>“What the hell was that?” Joe exploded as he stalked towards Nicky. He mentally replayed the scene he’d just witnessed. Nicky, who had gone to check one of the corners of the warehouse after he’d heard a suspicious noise, had been facing the barrel of a gun, although that wasn’t the image that haunted Joe now; the sight was all too familiar. What made Joe so angry was that, instead of disarming the man, instead of killing him - just <i>anything</i> to preserve his own hide - Nicky had been talking to him, as calmly as if he was at a tea party. </p><p>Andy and Booker shared the same thought as they looked at each other. <i>Here we go again</i>. </p><p>None of them could count the number of times Joe and Nicky had gotten into a fight. They had been together - as companions or lovers - for over 900 years; they were bound to butt heads from time to time. Andy and Booker were used to it by now; it was never of any consequence. Joe and Nicky had a rule that they never went to sleep angry, so they always resolved their differences relatively quickly. In the meantime, though, tempers sometimes grew rather heated. </p><p>Over the years, Andy and Booker had frequently witnessed the kind of argument that was about to unfold. Andy sat down on the floor, leaning against one of the support beams. She let her arms rest against her bent knees and glanced at her watch; she would let the scene play out for ten minutes before she ordered everyone out, not a minute more. Booker took a stance a short distance away, so that he could keep an eye on the cell door - just in case - while he enjoyed the show.  </p><p>“What were you doing talking to that man?” Joe asked, fuming. “These people are <i>dangerous</i>!” </p><p>“And I’m not?” Nicky’s voice was falsely innocent.</p><p>Andy’s eyebrows raised high, amusement plain on her face. “Oh, he got you there, Joe. Tread lightly, my friend!”</p><p>Joe glared at her; he knew damn well that Nicky had won this round, but he wasn’t ready to concede the point. “Dammit, Nicky! You’re always doing this… it isn’t worth the risk! You can’t talk or reason with these people!”</p><p>“We can <i>try</i>.” Nicky’s soft answer only fueled Joe’s frustration a little more. </p><p>“Don’t give me that shit! Those men -”</p><p>“That ‘man’ is just a boy,” Nicky cut him off. He felt some remorse for pushing the point - he disliked arguing with Joe, no matter the reason - but he was determined. It was hard to explain the impulse that drove him, but he had to try. “He didn’t belong here. He was terrified.”</p><p>“He was a terrified boy who had his gun pointed at your head!” Joe spat. There were few things more dangerous than frightened people; fear made them unpredictable - which Nicky knew as well as any of them. “Do I need to remind you that sometimes some of us don’t come back at all?” This fear, more than any other, made him almost irrational. An overwhelming dread had run through him at the sight of Nicky with the gun pointed at his head. The effects of a point-blank shot… he shuddered as the image replayed in his head. </p><p>Nicky hated to see the fear in Joe’s eyes - hated even more that he was responsible for it - but he was sure he had done the right thing. “He didn’t shoot,” he answered gently, trying to soften the blow. “He was not like the others.” </p><p>Joe laughed, but he was far from amused. “So on top of being an immortal, you can read people’s minds, now? That'll come in handy, right, Boss?”</p><p>Andy huffed as she shook her head. “Oh no, don’t bring me into this, Joe. I don’t disagree with you, but I’m not getting mixed up in your affairs.” She meant it; it was their business, but her disclaimer was also a way to remind Nicky what she thought of him taking risks.</p><p>Joe ignored her and turned his attention back to Nicky. “You saw what they are capable of!” His voice showed all the disgust and the rage he had felt during the mission prep. “You know what they were planning to do, Nicky. What we stopped them from doing.”</p><p>“I know. I saw.” Nicky remained calm. He knew how painful it was for Joe to witness the cruelty of others; he refused to deny his lover the right to be angry. Truthfully, he was no stranger to that kind of anger himself. He simply needed Joe - needed all of them - to understand why he kept trying to influence hearts and minds, even after hundreds of years. He explained, “You keep calling them children, <i>infants</i>. Children don’t know better; you have to educate them.”</p><p>“God.” Joe deflated. Nicky was relentless when he thought he was in the right; in the service of kindness, he would use every weapon he had at his disposal. Of course he would use Joe’s own words against him. Damn this man; he was simply too compassionate for this world. Despite his fury, Joe sincerely wanted to kiss Nicky right now. “You’re driving me crazy.”</p><p>“What did you say, this time?” Andy called from her seat on the floor. She was curious; she couldn’t imagine ever wanting to engage with any of those people. </p><p>Nicky sent Joe a pointed look. “I told him that I understood how misguided he was, how easy it is to hate when you don’t know anything else, when hatred is all you’ve been taught.” It was clear who he was thinking about. Joe smiled against his will; the man was relentless. </p><p>When he saw he wouldn’t be interrupted, Nicky continued. “I told him it wasn’t his fault that he grew up surrounded by anger and prejudice, but what happened next would be on him, and that he needed to decide what kind of man he wanted to become. I told him he had to face the consequences of his actions and pay for the mistakes he had made, that he was going to spend a long time in prison, but it didn’t mean his life was over. That it’s never too late to change and learn, to do better, <i>be</i> better. That he mustn't be afraid to ask for help.”</p><p>Booker whistled. “Quite the speech. How did he take it?” He was pretty sure he knew the answer, but he still hoped - if only for Nicky’s sake - to be surprised. </p><p>Nicky seemed unfazed. “As well as expected.”</p><p>Andy and Booker scoffed at that; they could imagine. Booker shrugged. “Maybe you’ll convince them next time, Nicky.”</p><p>“He didn’t shoot,” Nicky repeated. “And he listened.”  At this point, he considered that small step to be enough. “I can accept that; sometimes listening is the best they can do. I just wanted him to hear those words at least once in his life. Maybe he will remember them one day.” He stared at the three of them, willing them to believe, as he did.</p><p>“You’re such an incurable optimist,” Joe breathed. He stopped resisting his impulse; he grabbed Nicky by the hair, pulled him close, and kissed him fervently. He didn’t care about the sweat or the drying blood, he just kissed Nicky until they were both breathless. When he’d had his fill - for now - he touched his forehead to Nicky’s. “I swear you’re going to kill me.”</p><p>Nicky smiled softly at him. “You’ll get over it.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <hr/>
</div><i>A previous time - 16th century, Kingdom of France</i><p>As Nicolò disarmed one of his attackers and advanced on the other one facing him, a scream distracted him for a second. His eyes instantly tracked to Andromache’s position, to make sure she was alright. She was easily handling three men, just a bit further into the clearing than he and Yusuf were, but his body was already moving in her direction should she need help. She didn’t. </p><p>The man in front of him took advantage of his distraction and struck, but not fast enough - and not nearly skillfully enough. Even though he had been trained and must have fought in various wars, he didn’t have Nicolò’s experience. Nicolò didn’t even need to think as his body acted for him - he pivoted, parried, and lunged. He made sure not to kill his assailant, only to incapacitate him, just as he had done with the others. He spared him only a glance as the man fell on the ground, unconscious. Andromache, he, and Yusuf had offered their services to help bring the gang to justice and stop their brigandage; Nicolò had no intention of playing executioner.</p><p>Although fraternities of plunderers and poachers haunting the country were a familiar evil in these trying times of national unrest and local insurrections, this particular group of former soldiers was among the more violent. These men were incapable - or, in some cases, unwilling - to reintegrate into society in times of peace or truce - although Nicolò sometimes felt as if ‘peace’ had become an unattainable goal, and ‘truce’ was the best men and kingdoms could hope for. These men didn’t know how to act in a civilian society; they used their skills to get what they wanted or to take revenge on a population they thought had abandoned or betrayed them - depending upon which side of history they now found themselves.</p><p>Nicolò kneeled to use one of the fallen soldiers’ coats to clean his sword swiftly before he sheathed it. As he stood, he checked Yusuf’s progress; relief lessened the tension in his body as he saw him alive and well. Yusuf’s eyes were fixed on him, expression easing as, no doubt, he felt the same relief at seeing Nicolò well. Neither of them had been left unwounded, but the bruises and cuts weren’t serious and had healed quickly. Nicolò’s attention turned back to Andromache, as she was still fighting the last of the outlaws.</p><p>The warrior was a sight to behold. Each of her strikes was controlled and efficient, even though she used more violence than the situation warranted. She also seemed to ‘play’ with her attackers in a way that was more vicious than Nicolò was accustomed to - or comfortable with. She didn’t act like herself, yet - hadn’t for decades - but it seemed to Nicolò that the look in her eyes was just a little less feverish, a little less mad. Maybe it was just wishful thinking but, for a brief moment, Nicolò let himself believe that they had been right to accept this task. </p><p>Nicolò had lost many hours of sleep trying to find a solution that would allow them to keep going after what had happened to Quynh. He couldn’t let himself burden Yusuf with his worries; the other man was coping as well as he could with the loss of their friend. Quynh’s loss had brought to the surface many fears that would have been best left hidden. It was perhaps the worst time of their lives - after their own first deaths and the difficult years that followed.     </p><p>After spending decades trying to find Quynh’s location, it wasn’t so much that they had lost hope of ever finding her, as that hope itself seemed to have abandoned them. As impossible as it seemed, they needed to find a way to learn how to live without her. If they never found Quynh, the three of them - Andromache more than either of them - needed to believe they still had a purpose in this long life. When Andromache had accepted the request to hunt the mercenaries, Nicolò had felt a profound sense of relief. He needed to have faith that they were somehow, albeit so very slowly, starting to heal. One day at a time. Perhaps even one hour at a time. </p><p>Voices brought him back to the present. Two men, older than the others, unarmed, were watching the dying fight with anger on their faces; it was clear where their allegiance was. Nicolò supposed they served as cooks, or maybe ostlers - certainly not as killers, at any rate - even though they belonged to the gang and would be captured with the rest of them. </p><p>These men must have hidden when the three of them had launched their attack against the camp. It wasn’t so much their sudden appearance that made Nicolò worry - Andromache was already shifting her posture to face any possible threat from them - as what they were saying and the language they were using. </p><p>Ever since they’d started looking for the former soldiers, Andromache, he, and Yusuf had mostly been surrounded by people speaking the same Brittonic language that was common in the area. Nicolò found all the different languages of the world fascinating, if a bit exhausting. He wished they could all understand each other without having to learn a new language each time - and then learn it <i>again</i> as it evolved from one century to another. But these two men were speaking the language of what Nicolò inwardly called the ‘cursed land’ - where tragedy had struck in such an unbearable way. </p><p>Disbelief spread on the men’s faces. From the bits of their exchange that he could grasp, it was clear they didn’t understand how a woman could fight like a man. The word ‘witch’ reached Nicolò’s ears, making him shudder at the painful memory that immediately sprang to mind. He quickly headed toward Andromache’s position, worried about her reaction. </p><p>As he had feared, something seemed to snap in her. </p><p>“Andromache!” he called, hoping to catch her attention. She didn’t hear. Or didn’t care. She started walking straight towards the two men, who seemed unable to move - almost as if she had them under a spell. </p><p>Andromache was frightening in her grief. As she advanced, ready to strike down everyone in her path, even unconscious men on the ground, she looked like an avenging goddess that had fallen to Earth to inflict punishment and strike the evildoers. </p><p>“Andromache, stop!” Nicolò closed the distance between them, afraid of what she was about to do. Instinct led his hands to the hilt of his sword, but self-control made Nicolò relax his body as he stopped and stood right in front of his leader, acting as a shield to protect the men around him. </p><p>Fury in her eyes, Andromache faced him. Nicolò stared back, utterly still.</p><p>“Move, Nicolò.” </p><p>He almost didn’t recognise her voice. He shook his head and didn’t budge. “I’m sorry, Andromache.”</p><p>Nicolò understood her grief. He couldn’t know how she felt, but he understood how sorrow could drive her to madness. He couldn’t imagine a life without Yusuf, couldn’t bear the thought of being separated from him, or imagine never again feeling his touch. To go through life knowing of his fate but being unable to save him was - unthinkable. Yes, he understood her rage. Yet he couldn’t condone needless violence.</p><p>He couldn’t let Andromache lose herself like that. </p><p>From the moment that they had met, Nicolò had been in awe of Andromache and Quynh. They had seemed to take great joy in breaking the rules he knew and overturning the expectations he had about what a woman could or couldn’t do, what she should or shouldn’t do. It had been uncomfortable at first - at times still could be, if he was honest with himself - but he had welcomed the discomfort. Just as he had painstakingly learnt to understand and respect Yusuf as a person despite everything that he had been taught - before he’d fallen in love with his kindness and intelligence - he had been happy to let Andromache and Quynh teach him yet new lessons. He had loved their relationship, had seen it as a sign that love could endure time and adversities. It gave him hope for Yusuf and him, hope that their own love would equal theirs.</p><p>Sometimes he was still intimidated, but the two women had been good teachers, good friends, from the first time they’d met. They had enjoyed sharing their knowledge, eager to see the two additions to their ‘clan’ discover more of the world around them and learn from it. Nicolò had felt <i>young</i> when he was around the two of them.  It had been a strange sensation after such a long time, but it had felt good. It had made him believe that there would always be opportunities for him to better himself. Today, it was his turn to help Andromache.</p><p>“Please,” Nicolò urged, “don’t.”</p><p>“Get out of my way, Nicolò,” Andromache warned him. Her tone was so cold; she’d never spoken to him in such a way, not even when he’d been stupid, or even offensive out of sheer ignorance. She had always laughed at him before making him see the error of his ways, trusting him not to make the same mistake again, ready to put him in his place if he didn’t pay attention. Nicolò had always tried hard to pay attention. But now there was not even the slightest trace of warmth in her voice. </p><p>“Please,” Nicolò said again, “this isn’t you. Don’t let your grief turn you into the monsters you’re hunting.”</p><p>Something flashed in her eyes. “What do you know of my grief?” she spat, face distorted by pain. Her labrys was raised, blade against Nicolò’s neck; he could feel a sharp sting where it cut the skin. He refused to react. It actually helped him focus even more in the moment. </p><p>“Your grief is your own; I would never claim it. I can only feel pain on your behalf.” Nicolò made sure to remain still. He wasn’t so much afraid of being killed by Andromache as of what his death, even temporary, at her own hands might do to her. He also had no idea how Yusuf would react, and what the consequences could be on their group. Especially in their current, fragile state. </p><p>“Nicolò,” Yusuf called softly, voice tinged with tension. He closed the distance between them, ready to intervene. Even at a friend’s hands, he found any threat to Nicolò offensive. The three of them were locked in an almost surreal moment.</p><p>Arms steady, her weapon still raised high, Andromache jerked her head in Yusuf’s direction. “What would you do if they had taken <i>him</i> away from <i>you</i>?”</p><p>Nicolò’s heart clenched painfully in his chest at the mere thought of losing Yusuf like that. “I would want to watch the world burn slowly,” he admitted, ashamed. He wished the answer was different, that he was better than this, but the intensity of his love for Yusuf frightened him at times, and he sometimes worried what he would become without him. Would his soul split in two? “I would want to make them all pay for it.” </p><p>He felt Yusuf’s hand come to rest at the small of his back, in silent support. Yusuf was never far from him, either in mind or body.</p><p>Nicolò hadn't torn his eyes away from Andromache from the moment he had confronted her. He saw her relax minutely at his honest answer, full of a violence that was familiar to her. But this was the obvious answer, wasn’t it? Nicolò wasn’t finished. “And I would count on you to stop me,” he said softly. He added, “I would also need you to remind me to honour his memory by living and staying true to myself.”</p><p>Andromache lowered her arms and turned her back to him before she folded in half as if she were in physical pain. She let out a scream so full of anguish and anger that it broke something in Nicolò. He hoped he would never know such grief.</p><p>He made a gesture in her direction, but Yusuf stopped him with a hand on his forearm. Nicolò’s eyes flickered briefly to him, then he nodded to himself. He would let her be for a moment. As he watched Andromache walk away to put some distance between them, relief washed over him when he realised that she went without a single glance at the men around them. </p><p>Only now did Nicolò notice how silent the place had become. Even though none of the captured men could have understood the words exchanged between Andromache and him, the scene that had played out in front of them was still easy to interpret. Most were still observing them with hatred in their eyes but, in a very few, Nicolò could discern… not gratitude as such - resentment was still too strong among the group - but a sort of surprised realisation that an enemy could show mercy. Nicolò was familiar with the conflicted emotions such a revelation could bring in one person. </p><p>“What now?” Yusuf asked, breaking him out of his reverie. Head slightly tilted to the side, he was studying Nicolò’s face with curiosity. “What are you going to do with them, oh saviour of the damned?”</p><p>Nicolò frowned at him, even though he was somehow grateful for the attempt at humour. “I’m not going to do anything with them. Or just what we were hired to do - make sure they can be sent to the Maréchaussée so they can decide what to do with them.” That was the whole point. </p><p>Yusuf’s eyes were fixed on the men Nicolò had saved from Andromache’s wrath. He was tense, resentment evident from the expression on his own face. “They are not different from those that put Andromache and Quynh to death,” he pointed out, turning his attention back to Nicolò. “They are not different from those who watched as they condemned Quynh to a fate worse than death. You’ve heard the things they do to people like us. We are unclean to them, a disease.”</p><p>“Yet they are not those men; they shouldn’t pay for other men’s crimes. And they will be punished for theirs.” He glanced at Andromache, who was standing a few feet away from them, resting wearily against a tree. “We don’t execute bystanders or defenseless men. Andromache didn’t deserve to kill in cold blood.”</p><p>“It might have helped for a little while,” Yusuf whispered, even though he didn’t sound convinced.  </p><p>“You know as well as I do that it wouldn’t have.”</p><p>Yusuf nodded sadly. “I suppose not.” </p><p>Nicolò stepped closer to the other man, his shoulder brushing against Yusuf’s. “Don’t they remind you of us?”</p><p>“Who?” Yusuf frowned, then as he understood who Nicolò was talking about, he almost did a double-take. “Those men?” He grimaced, as if the thought was enough to disgust him. “You can’t compare us to them.” </p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>Yusuf abruptly turned towards Nicolò, incomprehension plain in his eyes. “We were taught nothing else!”</p><p>“Neither are they.” </p><p>“We overcame our education, why can’t they?”</p><p>Nicolò shrugged. He wished he knew the answer. “Maybe they haven’t found the right person to teach them in a way they can understand. Maybe they feel like no one ever listens to them and the whole world is against them.”</p><p>“Why are you so hell-bent on helping those people, Nicolò?” Yusuf’s tone left no room for interpretation; he was angry. Truth be told, he had been angry almost every day since what had happened to Andromache and Quynh. “They hate you. They don’t know the first thing about you and yet they have decided you are not worthy.” </p><p>“I know all that. I’m not saying they’re innocent. I’m not denying that they need to be punished,” Nicolò defended himself. “I just - I feel like they are not given the chance to grow, to <i>learn</i>.” Nicolò closed his eyes; he almost ached for them. “Their lives are so short, Yusuf.” When Nicolò looked back at Yusuf, his expression was fierce. “They hate and then they die. What kind of life is that?”</p><p>Yusuf cradled the back of Nicolò's head and kissed him gently. “The one they chose.”</p><p>Nicolò’s hands came to rest on Yusuf’s hips, as if he needed to anchor himself. “When you struck me down that first time -” Nicolò paused, trying to find the right words. “You thought I was not worthy. I thought the same about you. I had never met you, yet I felt my anger was just. I hated you with every fiber of my being, and for what?”</p><p>“You hated me,” Yusuf echoed his words, “yet when the opportunity came to strike me down one last time, you decided death was not the answer. You, Nicolò di Genova, decided to give me a chance.”</p><p>Nicolò raised his hands and traced his fingers over Yusuf’s features. “And you, Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Mohammed ibn al-Kaysani, accepted it right away.” He smiled fondly. “You were ready long before I was; my stupidity only caused more violence.”</p><p>“I think we were ready at the same time. And it was the right time for us,” Yusuf replied softly. “I think our hearts, if not our minds, were opened to the possibility of something else. I don’t believe it is the case with these people, Nicolò, I’m sorry.”</p><p>“Given the time...”</p><p>“You can’t give them that gift, my love.” Yusuf ran his thumb over Nicolò’s brow to soothe the creases he found there. “But you’re right about Andromache. We can help <i>her</i>, at least. Tomorrow, we talk to her.”</p><p>“Tomorrow, we talk to her.” As Nicolò repeated the words, something eased in him. They would help their leader, their friend, and maybe they would all start to heal. He hoped that one day soon, Andromache would learn to smile again, and believe that they could put some good to the world once more.</p>
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</div><i>An earlier time - 13th century, Kingdom of Hungary</i><p>After Jerusalem, their paths crossed several times. Each meeting was tense, if not violent. One day, after Yusuf was beaten to death and Nicolò stopped the men who were responsible just before he came back to life in front of them, they talked for hours and came to a decision: they agreed that it might be safer for them to stay together while they explored the realities of their new lives. They would wait and see where it would lead them. </p><p>For a time, Nicolò refused to travel very far. He didn’t yet trust Yusuf enough to admit it to him, but he was terrified that, if they left the Holy Land, they would become mortal again, that neither of them would come back the next time they were killed.</p><p>Decades passed, a century. Nicolò and Yusuf faced the reality of staying young when everyone and everything around them - from men to cities - grew old. It was more difficult than they had initially anticipated, but they were not living through the experience alone, which helped. </p><p>They traveled to many cities, then found their way to Constantinople, but what they saw there convinced them they needed to leave for good. They followed the coast and crossed different lands before settling in what they learnt was called Magyar Királyság. </p><p>“It looks so different yet so familiar, doesn’t it, Nicolò?” Yusuf asked him once, in a mix of Arabic and Ligurian that seemed to have become their own language. “Maybe one day, every kingdom will look the same to our ancient eyes.” </p><p>Nicolò offered him a smile. He’d wondered about that too. The thought was a bit unsettling. <i>He</i> felt unsettled. Nicolò kept having nightmares, still unsure about what being out in the world meant for them. </p><p>“Will you tell me what troubles you?” Yusuf finally asked one day. </p><p>“I’m afraid you will find me stupid.”</p><p>The look Yusuf sent him clearly said, without needing any words, that it wouldn’t be the first time - and certainly not the last. It made Nicolò smile which, he was sure, was Yusuf’s intention. </p><p>“I’m afraid we might not come back if we die now that we are so far from - from where it started.” That was the easiest way to explain his fears.</p><p>The shocked expression on Yusuf’s face told Nicolò the thought had never crossed his friend’s mind. </p><p>“So you still think your God - or mine, for that matter - has something to do with our immortality?” There was no mockery in Yusuf’s tone, just curiosity.</p><p>“I don’t know.” That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? They couldn’t know. Not really. Nothing proved his fear was justified. Nothing could really disprove it either. Well...</p><p>Of course, Yusuf came to the same conclusion. “I could kill you,” he offered, always the pragmatic one. “I’m not afraid; I know you will come back.” Then, as he realised how it must sound, he corrected himself. “Or you could kill <i>me</i> instead. As I said, I have faith we will rise again.”</p><p>Even though he could see the logic in Yusuf’s offer, the idea was not at all comfortable in Nicolò’s mind. He was surprised to realise that his unease came as much from the thought of either of them killing the other again, as from the possibility that Yusuf might be wrong, and one of them could die for good. Nicolò couldn’t bear to contemplate raising his sword against Yusuf. Too much blood had already been spilt between the two of them. Never again.  </p><p>“Thank you for that very generous offer, Yusuf, but I must decline,” he said finally, smiling at Yusuf’s roll of his eyes. </p><p>Nicolò tried to focus on their new life and not worry too much. He occupied his time with the sick and the poor of the villages around them. He tried to apply what he had learnt alongside the Knights Hospitallers, back when they were still in the Holy Land.  The opportunity to use something positive from that ugly period of his life gave him a kind of peace. They learnt new skills with their neighbours - Yusuf lapping up each new technique he was taught - and in return, shared their own knowledge, accumulated through the years. They made themselves useful to the people around them, tried to make themselves part of the community while being aware they would always be considered the outsiders. It was a fine line, but they learnt a lot. At the very least, it was a humbling experience. They settled into this new life more easily than they had expected. It felt good. Then the dreams started again. </p><p>“The dreams are becoming more vivid. I wonder if it means something?” Nicolò asked one morning, after another disturbed night. They were busy storing wood, as the cold season was fast approaching. They had stayed in warm - sometimes suffocatingly hot - climates for so long that Nicolò was impatient for the cold to arrive, for the snow to fall. They just needed to make sure they were prepared for it - also to make sure they could still help the more vulnerable of their charges, who would be in much more need than before.</p><p>“Maybe they’re getting closer to us?” Yusuf suggested, taking some of the small logs from Nicolò’s load and stacking them on the growing pile.</p><p>“I thought so too. But then their surroundings seemed so different. Where could they be, do you think? Far East?”</p><p>Yusuf nodded. “I can’t decide whether we should try to find them or avoid them.” </p><p>Nicolò appreciated Yusuf’s caution, but he was also conscious that the man was eager to learn more about them. Nicolò was a bit warier, but if they all shared the same fate - and why would they both dream of the same women over and over again if they were not special too? - then he believed they must meet.</p><p>It was not easy to understand where the two warriors were - for they were warriors, which was shocking in itself - or what they were doing, but each new dream brought more details about the women’s lives, their whereabouts. One time Yusuf and Nicolò believed they heard a language that was familiar to them, not that they were able to speak it yet. Another time, they thought they saw a place that they had heard about in their travels. </p><p>“So,” Yusuf started, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Have you seen anything interesting?”</p><p>Nicolò swapped at him without heat. Yusuf caught his arm, laughing, the touch lingering for a moment. </p><p>It was true that some of the scenes he saw made Nicolò blush when he had to describe his visions to Yusuf, which never failed to make his companion laugh. Nicolò didn’t really know what to think of everything he saw in those dreams, about the bond - carnal at times - those two women seemed to share. All he knew was that he envied Yusuf’s openness and tried to be more like him. It wasn’t easy. </p><p>They were still learning from each other, even after all this time. Nicolò felt like they could live a thousand years side by side and still learn new things about each other. Each day felt brand new, no matter how mundane their activities turned out to be, or how similar each day was to the day before. They had come so far, the two of them, at first forced together by circumstances, then by necessity. Today their connection was a deliberate choice, but Nicolò couldn’t help but wonder whether adding two new people could jeopardise what he and Yusuf were slowly building. Still, he felt, deep in his bones, that the two women were trustworthy. And he knew of Yusuf’s eagerness to meet them, he had so many questions to ask them. Even if he had doubts, Nicolò wouldn’t want to deny Yusuf like that.</p><p>“We stay for a little while yet, let winter end. Then we try to find them?” Nicolò proposed. His heart fluttered a little at Yusuf’s grateful smile. </p><p> “I think it’s better for us, anyway.” Yusuf’s smile faded. “I don’t like the rumours I’ve been hearing lately.”</p><p>“I’m more afraid of how people will react if they’re true.” They’d heard of warriors coming from the East, demons on horses that burnt and pillaged everything in their ways. They knew how fast rumours like this could spread, and they knew what narrative was always used - but invasions and attacks were a sad fact of life; they knew well what it meant. The population would suffer from it: they would be hurt, they would be afraid, they would feel powerless. They would soon look for scapegoats and would turn against the closest ‘threat’ they could find and make them pay for every pain that was inflicted on them. Turning against outsiders would be their first reflex. </p><p>“Yes,” Yusuf agreed. “I think we should try to lay low for a little while.” The expression of his face told another story. </p><p>“‘We’ - or ‘me’ specifically?” Nicolò asked, not quite belligerent, but annoyed at the thought.</p><p>Yusuf’s tone was pacifying. “I’m just saying you’ve been more in contact with the community lately. You know it won’t make you less of a target - quite the contrary.”</p><p>“I see. So, you’re saying you’ll stop going to Mozla and Paulia’s, then?” Yusuf’s silence was all the answer he needed. “That’s what I thought.”</p><p>So they remained and they kept trying to help. Then winter came, and it was ruthless. </p><p>When Nicolò saw a gathering crowd approach their place, he wasn’t surprised; he immediately knew what would happen. He was on his own and, for a moment, he was grateful. If he was disappointed - especially as he saw some familiar faces in the small crowd - he knew Yusuf would have been enraged. He wanted to spare him that, at least.</p><p>For a moment, he wasn’t sure what to do, but he couldn’t not <i>try</i> to make these people see reason - if only for their sake. So he went out and stood in front of them, trying to look as unthreatening as possible. He certainly should seem defenseless to them, alone in front of a dozen men and women armed with knives and spears. They looked angry and scared. They looked hungry. Nicolò guessed some of them hadn’t eaten in quite some time, and wondered why they hadn’t come to them. But then, he supposed he and Yusuf had already become ‘the others’. As he studied their faces, he also realised that they were determined. He wouldn’t come out of this alive.</p><p>Nevertheless, he had to offer. “You know you are welcome to our food anytime you need.” </p><p>“You lie,” one of them said. Nicolò didn’t know him. “You’ve been hiding goods, hiding supplies. Stealing them!”</p><p>“We don’t know each other, but if you did, you would know this isn't our way. Miklós, you know us.” He tried to appeal to those who did know him. A couple of men and women looked uncomfortable, but silence met his plea. Realisation came to Nicolò that the rumours about their hidden supplies had to come from somewhere closer to home.</p><p>“We only want to help,” he tried again.</p><p>“Tell us where you hide the food!” someone shouted. Others followed.</p><p>“You can look everywhere. Take what you need. But you won’t find what you’re really looking for.” Although that was a lie, wasn’t it? They were looking for someone to blame for everything that was happening and to pay for their own suffering. They were looking for blood. People were always looking for blood.</p><p>They must have seen the bitter knowledge in his eyes, because one of them - a man he’d never met before, which was the only comfort Nicolò could have in this moment - lunged and stabbed him. For a moment, no one said anything or moved; they seemed almost shocked that someone had taken that first step. But soon they became emboldened; another advanced on him, and yet another. He briefly saw that most of the group had run to their house, while the more vicious ones struck him several more times. Pain radiated down his whole body. As he fell to the ground, on his knees, he felt a sharp pain in his neck and, finally, darkness took him.</p><p>When Nicolò gasped back to life, he saw that Yusuf had returned and was kneeling by his side, one hand on his heart, soothing words in his ears. Coming back from the dead always left him disoriented, afraid - especially after a violent death - and this had been one of the worst in a long time. He realised it was also the first time he had been killed by a mob. </p><p>Waking up with Yusuf by his side never failed to make him feel safe. Yusuf was, as ever, a calming presence. He hoped it would never cease. Then he noticed that Yusuf looked livid.</p><p>“Are you alright?” Nicolò asked without thinking. He didn’t have the strength to sit up; for now, he remained where he was, lying on the cold ground, one hand coming to Yusuf’s knee, needing to touch him.</p><p>“Am <i>I</i> alright?” Yusuf gasped, back straightening. “What do you think, Nicolò? I came just in time to see the last of those - animals stab you in the neck and run like hell was after them when they saw me. You were - you <i>are</i> - covered in blood, stab wounds on every part of you.” Yusuf's eyes roamed all over his body. “I could see your bones in places! You were <i>dead</i>. ‘Am I alright’? What do you think?”</p><p>“What are you always telling me?” Nicolò was slowly finding his bearings. He didn’t hurt anymore, though his mind was still clouded. Maybe the sheer madness that had taken over the men and women who had attacked him had disturbed him more than the actual physical pain. He remembered fear and confusion, screams and distorted faces. Those emotions and images always seemed to linger, even when the pain didn’t. “‘Just because we keep living doesn’t mean we stop hurting’. It will pass. You know that.”</p><p>“I know,” Yusuf said carefully, obviously trying to remain as calm as possible, “that I tried to warn you, but you refused to listen - and now they murdered you.”</p><p>“They were desperate.” Nicolò said tiredly.</p><p>“They were like beasts!” Yusuf stopped trying to hide how furious he was. His hands flew to the holes in Nicolò’s clothes, the only remaining witnesses of the savagery with which he had been killed. “They stabbed you to death! They were all over you!” </p><p>As if Nicolò didn’t know. As if he didn’t care. Nicolò clenched his hands so hard his nails broke the skin of his palms. What difference did more blood make now? Couldn’t Yusuf see how difficult it was for him not to get angry? Couldn’t he see how fiercely he clung to his act of forgiveness? But he had to; he couldn’t start resenting people like them. He and Yusuf might live forever; he <i>needed</i> to remember what misery, fear and ignorance could lead people to do. He could forget many lessons in life, but he must never forget <i>this</i> one.</p><p>Yusuf must have felt his anguish; he gently ran a hand over Nicolò’s hair. “I’m sorry. I’m not angry at you, you know that.”</p><p>Nicolò forced himself to relax. “They were terrified,” he said with intent. “They are starving. I’m sure their <i>children</i> are starving. They didn’t know whether we would keep sharing our meals and our supplies with everything going on. They didn’t know they only needed to ask, always.”</p><p>“Did you try to reason with them?” Yusuf’s hand covered his own, still on Yusuf’s knee.</p><p>“They didn’t listen.”</p><p>Nicolò had known it was coming, even though he’d hoped to avoid it. “Did you try to defend yourself?”</p><p>Nicolò kept silent; nothing he could say would appease Yusuf. He slowly sat up, dislodging Yusuf’s hand, glancing at him. His head wasn’t spinning anymore; he was feeling a bit better already.</p><p>Yusuf sat down and let out a frustrated sigh. “May Allah help me; I live with a martyr.” He sighed deeply as he raked a hand over his face. Then a thought seemed to occur to him. “At least this takes care of your silly fear of not coming back from the dead so far from your Holy Land, doesn’t it?”</p><p>Nicolò raised an eyebrow. He was surprised - and touched, he had to admit - that Yusuf would remember. “I suppose it does.” </p><p>Yusuf squeezed his shoulder. “Good,” he said simply. Then, “We need to leave. They have seen you die at their hands. I’m afraid of what will happen if they realise you have come back from death.”</p><p>Nicolò shuddered at the thought. “I am sorry, Yusuf.”</p><p>“For what?”</p><p>“For - I don’t know,” Nicolò answered simply. </p><p>Yusuf nudged Nicolò’s shoulder with his own. “We were planning on leaving this place, anyway. Now is just the perfect opportunity.” His fingers trailed almost like an afterthought along Nicolò’s throat, making Nicolò shudder - but not out of fear this time. “We need to clean you up first.” </p><p>Yusuf stood, helping Nicolò do the same. They got back to their home, which had been turned upside down. Yusuf’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t say anything; he put a chair back in its place for Nicolò to sit, then built up the fire in the hearth so that he could warm some water. When he was satisfied with it, he motioned Nicolò to take his shirt off. He was holding a warm cloth in his hand.</p><p>“It’s ruined,” Nicolò remarked needlessly; he still hadn’t become used to the sight of his own blood plastered all over his clothes. It felt almost obscene to him. </p><p>Yusuf smiled softly. “I will buy you another one on our next stop.”</p><p>“I can buy it myself,” Nicolò stated, for the sake of it. He was not offended by the offer, nor did he intend to decline it. Quite the contrary, he was warmed by it. He simply didn’t want Yusuf to feel like Nicolò was taking advantage.</p><p>“I know you can. I want to.”</p><p>Delight filled Nicolò. </p><p>When Yusuf started cleaning his face, his chest, back, and arms, Nicolò felt warmth spread all over his body. Then Yusuf asked him to take off his pants, ruined like the shirt. Nicolò could have washed himself by now, yet he didn’t want to. He stood naked in front of Yusuf, who warmed the cloth again before cleaning the rest of him. The touch was so gentle, almost reverent. Yusuf wasn’t cleaning away only the blood; Nicolò felt cleansed from much more. </p><p>When Yusuf was finished and Nicolò found a new set of clothes to replace the ones that had been torn apart - he’d feared for a moment that the others had taken everything - he felt much calmer, more like himself.  </p><p>“Tomorrow we leave,” Nicolò said. “We go find our warriors.”</p><p>Yusuf nodded. “They are older than us,” he stated. They wouldn’t know until they all met, but it was the feeling they had from their dreams. The women were much older than the two of them. “We will learn from them. We will get stronger. And if you choose to never fight again, we will fight in your place.” </p><p>The words resonated like a vow. A promise. The idea was tempting, but Nicolò couldn’t bear the thought of not being at Yusuf’s side, not fighting with him. They had been born in blood, together; he couldn’t imagine not being there to protect Yusuf. </p><p>“We fight together or we don’t fight at all.” He made a vow of his own. “And we fight for what we believe is right. We fight so that people don’t become monsters.”</p><p>“We fight together.” Yusuf repeated. Then, after a moment of hesitation that seemed to last a thousand years to Nicolò, Yusuf’s lips chastely covered his. Only now did Nicolò realise how much he had longed for this. “And we stay together?” </p><p>“Always,” Nicolò whispered, brushing his forehead against Yusuf’s.</p>
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</div><i>The first time - 11th century, Southern Levant</i><p>Nicolò woke up again, gasping. He fought to gulp for air, as if he’d just been drowning. His hands frantically came to his neck. He felt himself swallow, his throat contracting painlessly. His fingers trailed along his neck, tracing the dried blood on his skin; the grains of sand were rough against his hands. </p><p>He could feel all that, but there was no trace of the mortal wound. He moved his head to the side tiredly. The sun was biting at his skin, heating up his whole body. Nicolò closed his eyes and let himself rest for a little while, despite the discomfort. He was exhausted.</p><p>When he opened his eyes again, he noticed that his longsword had fallen nearby. He extended an arm, his hand reaching out, fingers fumbling against the ground until they reached the pommel. He shifted slightly until he could grip the hilt. He brought the sword back to him, keeping it close by his side. </p><p>He looked for the anger that had guided him until this moment, but felt only bone-deep exhaustion. Slowly, Nicolò sat up and looked around. Somehow his gaze immediately tracked the dark figure that had been his constant companion for… how many days had it been now? Or was it weeks? Did time pass the same way for them now as it had for their past selves? Nicolò wondered at the sight of this man who had killed him so many times. Whom he had killed in equal numbers. </p><p>It was so odd, the knowledge Nicolò had of this enemy. He was not one soldier among thousands anymore. He was a solid - if unwanted - presence that had been by his side in the worst moments of his life. Even though his name was still a mystery, Nicolò knew many things about him now: this was the heathen who had struck Nicolò down without mercy and then killed him many times after that, who had stared at Nicolò with fury in his eyes as he beat Nicolò to death. He was the man Nicolò had fought and then killed many more times after that. A man he had hated on sight. </p><p>Nicolò knew nothing about the stranger, yet Nicolò had witnessed how skilled he was and how fast he could fight. Nicolò knew his strength and how hard he could strike. He had intimate knowledge of the way his enemy’s hands could feel clenched around his throat - could remember the weight of his body when the man had pressed against him to watch Nicolò die. Nicolò knew the smell of the man as Nicolò had held his body against his own and felt life leave him. They were bound by violence, if nothing else.    </p><p>Yet there were no scars anywhere on Nicolò’s body to bear witness to the brutality they had shared. If it weren’t for Nicolò's skin and clothes - as well as the enemy’s torn clothing - there would be no trace left of the pain they had inflicted on each other. Nicolò hadn't washed in days, his body was covered with sand and dust, he was soaked in sweat. Dirt and blood matted his hair. He must have eaten or drunk water, but he could remember nothing except the deaths - his enemy’s as well as his own.</p><p>His clothes were torn in places and caked with the blood that had been spilt between them. Nicolò couldn't have said which stain belonged to whom, as if their bodies had become one. He felt unclean. Lost.</p><p>How different life had been before his path had ever crossed the other’s. Nicolò could still recall the excitement of having reached his destination. He vividly remembered how awed he had been at the realisation that he was now on foreign land. Yes, he had been somewhat fearful, as well, but he had never felt so alive.</p><p>As a young boy, in Genova, Nicolò had listened to travelers and merchants as they talked about their homelands, but those tales were nothing like the reality of being here himself. Nothing could have prepared him for how the sun felt on his skin in this strange land, how disorienting it was to be surrounded by so many unfamiliar faces, scents, and voices, to be so far away from everything he knew…</p><p>Yet, strange as it was, Nicolò had been so certain that he had found his purpose when he had reached the gates of Jerusalem. He’d been elated. This was the most extraordinary thing he'd ever done... probably would ever do. He had answered a higher calling and was now ready to fight for his God on Holy Land, to trace the path on which Christ himself had trodden. Nicolò had been ready to give his life for a cause that was good and just.</p><p>Look at him now. He had heard the screams and witnessed the despair of those who had been deemed ‘unjust’ - but those screams were the same as the cries of those who had fought for God. He had died and killed, and come back to life and killed again. For what? Heaven had been stolen from him. </p><p>Nicolò caressed the red cross on his shirt. He had taken such great care at sewing it upon his arrival in the Holy Land. Now it had turned a much darker shade of red, mixed with blood and dirt. It was stained, ruined. What about his soul? Was it stained and ruined as well? He remembered the vow he had made when he’d joined his brothers on this pilgrimage. Did the words still hold true?</p><p>A slow murmur brought Nicolò back to the present; he watched wearily as his enemy performed one of his daily prayers. Nicolò’s eyes lifted to the sky to check the sun’s position. Early afternoon prayer, then. The sight was unnerving. Even though the position and the gestures were nothing like his own, the intent behind them didn’t seem so different. The man looked so serene as he talked to his God… just as Nicolò himself had always felt. </p><p>Nicolò moved slowly, silently. Was it because he was afraid any noise would bring more violence, or because he didn’t want to disturb the other man while he was praying? He didn’t know. He went to his knees. He bent his head and brought his hands together. His hair fell around his face; the leather tie he had used to keep it bound was long gone.  </p><p>He tried to find the peace that prayer never failed to give him, but he was in too much turmoil. Was he cursed? If he was, why was he being punished? Didn't he fight for a just cause? Hadn't he fought for God, and weren't his sins supposed to be forgiven?</p><p>If he was blessed… then was it a reward for everything he had done? But then, why had God shared this gift with Nicolò's enemy? </p><p>His previous anger returned. He was so furious he couldn’t <i>think</i>. He wished he wasn’t, especially now that he was trying to speak with God, but anger almost consumed him. Nicolò didn’t understand.</p><p>Why them? Who was this man Nicolò had never met before, whose name he didn’t know, about whose life he knew nothing, yet whose fate seemed to be tied to his own? Was there a reason why God had made it impossible for them to kill each other? What lesson could He be teaching Nicolò? If it <i>was</i> a blessing, then it was a blessing bestowed upon them both… which meant they were both worthy of it. Could it be so? For what purpose?</p><p>Nicolò was confused. He was scared. He studied the heathen and wondered whether he was experiencing the same fear and confusion. Did he feel as isolated as Nicolò himself? Was he also tired, hoping for his own reprieve from the pain and the blood? </p><p>As he tried to make sense of this impossible situation, Nicolò had a sudden moment of clarity. No more violence. No more death. Nicolò <i>needed</i> to understand. He refused to spill more blood today. He wasn’t sure about tomorrow, but today he refused to strike again. </p><p>As the other man finished his prayer, he turned and looked at Nicolò, who was still kneeling. Nicolò looked back. They were both utterly still. Nicolò decided to have faith in his enemy, to believe that the other man would understand what he was trying to achieve and accept his gesture.</p><p>Nicolò had no idea what the stranger was thinking but, for the first time, he really looked at him. His face held none of the anger of the past days or weeks. His eyes weren’t filled with fury any longer. He looked intelligent. Maybe it was only Nicolò’s wishful thinking, but he thought he saw some kind of curiosity in the careful expression, as if he was patiently waiting for Nicolò to come to terms with his musing. </p><p>Now that he had the man’s attention, Nicolò wasn’t sure what to do or say. What did you say to someone your heart told you to hate? What words did you use when you knew they could hold no meaning for the one they were addressed to? He chose the most basic to start with - perhaps the most important words he knew. </p><p>“Nicolò.” He spread a palm against his own chest, willing his hand not to tremble. “Nicolò di Genova.” He wanted the stranger to know his name and to know where he was from, even though he supposed the words would be meaningless to him.</p><p>The answer didn’t take long, as if the man had been waiting for it. “Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Mohammed ibn al-Kaysani.”</p><p>Nicolò blinked. He wasn’t sure he understood it all, but he thought he remembered that, in this land, people’s names also carried the memory of their family lines. He wasn’t sure he would be able to remember it - and would it really matter? - but he made a promise to himself to <i>try</i>, at least. </p><p>Nicolò had no idea what he expected of this truce - or if it could even be called that - but right this instant, he wanted to remember the name of the one who, like him, seemed unable to die. And if, one day, Nicolò did manage to kill him, he would be able to pray for Yusuf using his given name. He repeated it out loud. “Yusuf.” He felt the shape of the other man’s name on his lips for the first time.</p><p>Nicolò didn’t understand whether they had both been blessed or cursed with immortal life. He had no idea whether their fates were intrinsically tied together. He couldn’t say whether they would kill each other again the day after today, or if they would ever stop this infernal cycle and go their separate ways, never to lay eyes on the other again.</p><p>He didn’t care. The future had never been so uncertain, so frightening as it was now. All he knew was that, in this foreign land, in this terrifying moment in his life, he was not alone. And he wanted the other man to know that he wasn’t alone, either. </p><p>Maybe it was enough for now.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The line “that’s who he is, and who he will always be” is actually comics!canon. Same thing with the “put some good to the world” line. Because that whole ‘verse is the gift that keeps on giving, you guys &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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